Spendlove cast an impatient glance at the table. “Woman fished out of the Thames. A lightskirt, probably.” His tone held no interest, and he strode out, clearly expecting me to follow.
I gingerly lifted the sheet. For some reason, I was taken with the notion that it might be the young lady who had sought me out in Grimpen Lane. Bundled against the rain, Mrs. Beltan had told me, with kind brown eyes.
The woman beneath the sheet had snarled, gray hair. She must have lain under the water a while, because her skin had an almost greenish cast, and fish had nibbled her flesh. Whatever clothes she’d worn had gone. She was not a young woman by any means, but she’d met a nasty end.
Had she fallen, inebriated, into the river? Or had someone pushed her there?
Dark bruises covered her torso, but it was difficult to tell whether those had come from her body knocking into things in the water or beatings she’d received beforehand. There were no obvious imprints of fingers on her arms, shoulders, or neck to show she’d been handled roughly, but again, it was difficult to see exactly.
Her belly held puckered scars, signs a woman had born a child. Did those children worry where she was? Or had she, as did many forced to eke out an existence on the streets, given them up to the parish to raise?
My heart was heavy as I replaced the sheet. So many had troubles in this world, far greater than Denis or myself. Could I solve them all? I knew I could not.
But it did not stop me from wishing to try.
I let out a breath and followed the impatient Spendlove back into the rain, leaving the dead to sleep.
I returned to Grimpen Lane and Mrs. Beltan’s shop to fetch Brewster. The woman was busy with ladies purchasing bread and pastries, so I could not quiz her further on the visitor who’d sought me.
“I should return home, I think,” I told Brewster as we headed into Covent Garden. “Her ladyship will be rising soon and wonder at my absence.”
“You’re seeing sense at last,” Brewster said. “The further ye stay from Bow Street Nick and Newgate the better, guv.”
We reached a hackney stand, and Brewster hoisted me into a waiting carriage. He joined me inside, resting his bulk in the opposite seat.
“I must speak to Gibbons again today,” I said as the hackney jolted down Southampton Street toward the Strand. I withdrew the note Denis had written to Gibbons and handed it to Brewster. “Can you arrange it?”
Brewster scowled as he skimmed the missive but nodded. “I’ll make sure he lets you in.”
I was silent for the rest of the ride. I couldn’t explain that I needed the warmth in my wife’s eyes and the comfort of both my daughters’ smiles to erase the bleakness of rain-soaked Seven Dials and the unfortunates at Bow Street.
Donata, who kept very late nights during the Season, would have risen by now, as would my daughter. Gabriella tended to leave her bed a bit earlier than my wife, but because Donata had swept Gabriella into the social season with her, I begrudged neither of them their sleep.
Peter was absent because he’d gone off to school as soon as we’d arrived again in England. He’d borne up manfully when I’d ridden with him to the large house that held the school, not far from his grandfather’s home in Oxfordshire. We’d shaken hands solemnly on our departure, but I’d watched him blink back tears. My eyes, in truth, had been moist as well. I knew the school would prepare Peter for Harrow, where he as a viscount would form connections that would benefit him in life, but I missed having the little fellow about.
My daughter, Anne, was with us, of course. She could toddle about now and say “Papa.” I was ridiculously proud of her.
The hackney took us to my residence by way of Berkeley Square. Spring was coming even to London, the trees in the park budding out in fresh green. The carriage lurched around corners to South Audley Street and halted before the tall house leased by the viscounts Breckenridge, where Donata made her home in London.
Whatever the brutish Viscount Breckenridge had put Donata through during her marriage to him, he’d left her a lavish amount of money and the use of this house for her lifetime. Small compensation for her putting up with him, I knew, but I was grateful for it. While Lady Breckenridge had become, upon marriage to me, plain Mrs. Lacey, she held enough respect of the ton to remain a leading hostess. She’d not had to descend into obscure poverty with me.
I descended from the hackney, with Brewster’s assistance, and paid the cabbie. Brewster started off toward Curzon Street, determined to hunt up Gibbons.
The footman stationed in the foyer opened the door for me, and I gladly entered our comfortable abode.
I admired the house as much now as I had when I’d first seen it. Donata had opted for the clean lines of a Robert Adam-style interior, with light colors, niches for statuary, and fine paintings. The main hall held little furniture apart from a few pseudo-Egyptian style chairs and a table with a vase of fresh flowers that were changed daily. The staircase wound gracefully upward from the main hall, adding to its elegance.
After divesting myself of my outdoor things, I thumped up the stairs I’d hurried down earlier this morning and tapped on the door of Donata’s boudoir.
At her reply, I entered to find her at her correspondence, as she usually was first thing after rising.
“There you are, Gabriel.” Donata turned to me from her writing table, her relief apparent. “Barnstable told me you’d gone off with a ruffian he’d never seen before. I am pleased that you have returned, whole.” She deliberately retained her composure, draping one arm languidly over the back of her chair. “An acquaintance of Mr. Brewster’s, was it? Or a summons from Mr. Denis?”
I dropped a kiss to Donata’s pleasantly scented hair. “It was Gibbons, Denis’s butler. Denis is in Newgate, awaiting trial for murder.”
I could not often surprise my wife, so it was gratifying to watch her lips part in astonishment. “I beg your pardon?”
I pulled the comfortable chair she kept for me next to her desk and sank down to relate the events of the morning.
